


Heroes

by Horribibble



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, M/M, Wheelchairs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Horribibble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I believe, doctor, that we live in a world where there is no such thing as a superhero. Not one that I’ve yet seen.” </p><p>Two years ago, Arthur Kirkland took a fall. The super that broke his fall--and his spine--retreated from the public eye. Just like that--Jack Frost was gone, and Arthur Kirkland became an outcast, publishing articles about dangers that no one else seemed able to see...until a certain someone came along. </p><p>Alfred F. Jones is an eager new intern with the League of Superheroes; a natural talent with a bright and noble outlook on life--and a growing crush on a bitter Brit. The information he's been fed doesn't seem to add up, though. Something is definitely wrong here. Something has to give, and Alfred's just the sort of one-man wrecking crew for the job.</p><p>But Winter is coming...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the first chapter of one of newer works in progress. I could really use some illustrations of this. :)  
> Ideas and speculation are similarly welcome. 
> 
> As a general warning, the violence tag is not, at present, for actual fighting, but for the somewhat vivid description of Arthur's injuries from his own point of view. I myself have never broken my spine or taken a header out of any tall buildings, so some liberties have been taken.
> 
> For now, we'll begin with one Arthur Kirkland, embittered journalist, and see where the record takes us.

 

For a moment, maybe two, the free fall feels like Heaven. Adrenaline (or something like it) fizzles in your stomach, chest and throat. It bubbles up and bursts in the hollows of the column, the way a joyful shout might if you were just too excited to let it out, dying into a whimper. Any sound you might make is ripped straight from between your lips before your tongue can finish wrapping about it. It goes flying past your ear before you can take possession—almost like telling yourself a secret.

Completely surreal.

Then comes the feeling of suffocation. Velocity builds, and breathable air wants nothing to do with you or any of your secret sounds. You realize that you might even suffocate before you hit the ground, and it’s probably the better way to go.

The thought might occur to you, _Just don’t let it hurt._

And then suddenly, there’s the impact. Everything inside rattles. Maybe one or two things manage to break loose. A foul mixture of blood, spit and stomach acid hacks itself up. It’s a thick feeling, drowning in yourself—or the ‘ingredients’ of you, if you’d prefer.

There’s a moment of infancy, hanging in the air, absolutely vulnerable and choking on your own visceral mess and sick. The closest comparison that can be made is to a gagging newborn, waiting for the pat on the back, the opportunity to breathe. You might even catch the look of parental disapproval as it dissolves into comprehension. Maybe even horror.

Because you are not supposed to gag on your own insides or dangle limply in two parts, sliding loose inside your skin. You are supposed to smile and thank them for saving your life.

Not ruining it.

-

Hospital machines can sound remarkably like to an alarm clock, provided the personnel have plied you with enough morphine. But did you really want to wake up?

No one bothers to ask the question—or at least, not of _you_. Ethicists might take up some light debate, but it is abundantly clear to everyone involved that these are special circumstances. Everyone but you—high as a kite with no sign of plummeting, not _this_ time—has something much more interesting to talk about than your paltry hallucinations.

At this point, the floral arrangements littering the room seem much more like colorful smears of dust than the gaudy, impersonal apologies that they are. The nurses think that these are far more than you deserve.

Everything about your stay is impersonal, because a household name is in for a whole lot of trouble, and all over a no-name like you.

As far as the staff is concerned, you are taking an ill-earned vacation inside your head, not listening to the soundtrack of your mind and musculature imploding in countless shades of violet.

The sincerest thing you’ll hear is, “You know, Supers have made some _amazing_ medical advancements…”

They won’t even think twice if you refuse. There’s nothing much to you.

Nothing super, anyway.

-

In rare moments of lucidity, when you are too tired for anger and too self-conscious to call for grudging help, you have only to remember: that you will never walk again, and press the button that kills the pain.

\---

  
For several moments, the only audible sound in Doctor Emma Jansen’s office was the ticking of her tastefully modern clock, placed in just such a location that she could glance surreptitiously at it without frustrating her patients and, failing that, that they would have a very difficult time seizing it for use as a bludgeon or projectile.

She understood that that happened sometimes. It was an occupational hazard, and allowances had to be made. In the event of any violent outburst, she liked to believe that she was prepared.

At the moment, however, she found herself feeling decidedly uncertain.

The vivid green eyes awaiting her own when she glanced up from the page were entirely too aware of her, she felt; as if he had already calculated each possible reaction she might have, and was waiting patiently to see which theory had proven correct.

She removed her reading glasses in a smooth motion, folding them delicately before setting them to the side.

Green eyes flitted briefly with the arc of her hand before settling again on her carefully emptied expression.

Emma did not like that this was turning into a competition. It was not conducive to progress at all, and after reading what she had, there was no doubt that her patient needed progress.

He _deserved_ it.

Delicately swallowing the knot in her throat, she set the papers down as well, closing her eyes briefly to gather her thoughts.

“Well, Arthur,” She sighed before opening her eyes to his once more, “Your writing is certainly very powerful.”

 _As always_.

She had told him herself that she was an avid reader of his columns when he’d first called to schedule this appointment. She had even requested that he might perhaps write down his feelings and experiences, so that she could better understand and access them.

 _This_ she had not expected.

“I’ve been told that, yes.” His eyes lost none of their sharpness, and she knew that he was still reserving his judgment of her.

“I mean it, though. My body aches.” She thought she saw him fighting off a smile and ventured to lean forward slightly, “I wasn’t expecting anything like that.”

“What _did_ you expect, then? Some load of bittersweet drivel? An epic lament?”

“Is that what you thought I’d expect, or what everyone _else_ expects?”

“If there _are_ any expectations of me these days, I should like to think that I defy them. I find I rather dislike playing to the typical.”

“I can see why.” She glanced sidelong at the piece on her desk, “I just wasn’t expecting anything so…together.”

“I’ve had enough time to gather my thoughts. Not much of a social life, I’m afraid.” He gestured down at his legs, arranged neatly in his wheelchair, “I suspect word’s gotten ‘round that I’m a _horrible_ dancer.”

Emma couldn’t help but giggle a little at that. She had always appreciated the author’s acerbic wit, but the blatant play at humor highlighted his need for help.

He needed to talk about it—not just until inquiring parties were satisfied, but until Emma could safely say that she had _helped_ him.

“That’s not really what I meant. Typically, in a case like yours, the subject either bottles everything up or lashes out.”

“Isn’t that what I’ve _been_ doing? I’ve got quite a nasty reputation, you know.”

Emma shook her head, and Arthur quirked a brow. She caught him mimicking her forward posture, however unconsciously, and knew that they’d taken at least a slight departure from his routine interactions. “You’re critical of superheroes, but your criticisms are no less sensible and well-organized than any of your articles before the incident. You have continued a reputable body of work _outside_ of this,” She made an all-encompassing gesture, “and you don’t show anywhere _near_ this much emotion in your published work involving supers. To put it simply…”

“I haven’t done anything stupid?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“There are others?”

“It’s hard for me to define. I just…” Emma reached out to touch the smooth paper, grazing it with her fingertips and biting her lip before glancing back at Arthur, her eyes openly conflicted, “I don’t feel like you _hate_ superheroes.”

Arthur was quiet, so she pressed on, a bit more confident.

“I feel like there’s something _beyond_ that. Something more thoughtful to all of it than people are willing to give you credit for. I’ve seen plenty of hate before, Arthur, and I know what it does to people. You might be bitter, but whatever’s inside you isn’t that ugly. At least, that’s the feeling that I get. Am I wrong?”

When she locked eyes with Arthur again, his gaze seemed to have glazed over, traveling with thoughts five hundred miles away. She waited a moment or two for him to return. “I wouldn’t say that you’re wrong. In fact, I think you’re remarkably observant.”

Emma’s breath caught at the openness, the burnt humor in his eyes—as if his words or the knowledge behind them wore at him constantly, “I _don’t_ hate superheroes. Not at all. I couldn’t claim to hate a superhero, because I don’t believe I’ve ever met one.”

“But your—”

He held up a hand, and Emma fell silent. He smiled in acknowledgement before he continued, “I don’t believe I’ve ever met a superhero, because the literal _definition_ of a superhero is a benevolent being possessing superhuman powers. I would argue that the individual that happened to stop my fall was not a super _hero_ at all, but a super _human_. You see, I believe that for all of these _spectacularly_ well-publicized individuals that we have allowed the benefit of every _possible_ societal acclaim—I believe that the _effort_ is there, but not the _intent_."

"The man that happened to catch me was not saving a human life, but performing a mundane task—saving the street cleaners a bit of trouble, I suppose. I haven’t heard a single thing from my ‘rescuer’, Doctor. Not once. His union sent a few arrangements, certainly, and the settlement I was forced to accept may well send my great-grandchildren to three separate Ivy League colleges, but I’ve not heard a single sincere word of apology. Not a single soul on this _earth_ was glad that Arthur Kirkland had survived his little spill, least of all myself.”

He paused for a moment, breathing. Something seemed to swim in his eyes—something horrible for all that it was true—and he continued, almost whispering with the weight of it.

“But that’s not what frightens me, Doctor. What _terrifies_ me each and every time I take a look outside is that I’m not the only one crippled. We live in a world where the vast majority blindly worships a privileged and uninterested elite. We have allowed them to coddle us, you see, and to lure us into a sense of dependency—but they’re not at all different from negligent parents. They are performing a job, no more, no less, but people have become deluded into thinking that they actually _care_.”

“I believe, doctor, that we live in a world where there is no such thing as a super _hero_. Not one that I’ve yet seen.”

After that, the office was quiet again until the chime went off to signal the end of their session.

Emma studied Arthur’s face intently, looking for some hint of… _anything_ to chase away the chill running down her spine. There was nothing there but patient humor, as if he were waiting to be mocked by an ignorant child.

Instead, she licked her lips and smoothed her carefully-pressed skirt against her lap, “That’s…the end of the session.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Arthur, I…I’m not certain how to help you. _If_ I can help you. …Or how something like that can possibly _be_ helped. I...Arthur…”

“Yes, Doctor Jansen?”

“Why did you make an appointment?”

“My editor insisted, and I thought that it couldn’t hurt.”

“Is that all?”

“Honestly, Emma, I couldn’t tell you. May be I just need someone to listen, now and then.”

“I can do that,” Emma nodded, “I can try.”

“Damned decent of you.” Arthur replied, and then he wheeled himself out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Jack Frost is Ivan Braginsky. Shh. Secret identity. 
> 
> Look forward to upcoming appearances by Matthew, Gilbert, and a modest host of others. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the first installment, and look forward to any feedback. 
> 
> Let's all hope for the best.


End file.
